The Toasting
by willowwand62442
Summary: Peeta and Katniss perform District 12's marriage ritual.    MAJOR spoilers for Mockingjay. Please don't read if you don't want to be spoiled.


**The Toasting**

Wedding clothes aren't hard to come by. We each have a closet full of clothes we wore during the Victory Tour, and I have several wedding gowns of Cinna's design as well. These gowns are far more extravagant than what most people in what was once District 12 would wear, but it seems criminal not to have a bit of Cinna present at our wedding.

My mother, who braved her demons to come back here, braids my hair, adorning it with primrose. A reminder of _her_. It's hard not to think of those who are no longer with us. Prim, my father, Peeta's father, Cinna. Their absence makes the day bittersweet since they are never far from our thoughts.

For the benefit of our friends and family, there is dinner, dancing, singing. Then it's time for the toasting. As Peeta and I cross the threshold of our home, we wave to our loved ones, who stand around the door singing the traditional wedding song for District 12. Then we close the door, and Peeta and I are alone for the first time all day. A flutter of nervousness catches me by surprise. We spend little time apart these days, so it's strange that I should feel so anxious. We've done everything we needed to do to make our marriage legal, but for both of us—who were born and raised in District 12—the toasting is the most important part of the ritual. This is the moment when we truly become husband and wife.

Peeta takes my hand and leads me to the large fireplace. There is a bundle of freshly cut wood beside the fireplace, a wedding gift from the community. It's often difficult for Peeta to kneel because of his leg, but he manages it now and proceeds to carefully arrange the firewood in the fireplace. I take a box of matches from the mantle and light a piece of kindling he hands me. Peeta smiles as I kneel beside him. He covers my hand with his and together we light the fire, watching in silence as it slowly grows from a small flame to a blazing fire.

Then it happens. The light from the flames flicker across his face and Peeta closes his eyes tightly. His hands clench into fists, and perspiration beads on his forehead. He grimaces as he experiences another flashback of false memories from his hijacking. I sit perfectly still, as fear and fury play across his face. After a few anxious moments, I notice the tension drain from his body.

"I'm sorry," he says once it passes, his eyes avoiding mine. "It-it rained fire. Real or not real."

I raise my hand and touch the scars that curl across his forehead. "Real."

Peeta frowns, his forehead wrinkling in frustration, and I tilt my head back to expose the patchwork skin on my neck. His frown deepens as he traces the puckered scars. He leans in, and I feel the warmth of his breath against my skin as he presses his lips to my neck. I shiver in spite of my proximity to the fire. He pulls back only to lean in again, kissing me on the lips this time.

His kisses have come to mean so many things to me: comfort, stability, trust, love, desire. In mere seconds, I'm entirely consumed. I wind my fingers into the waves of his blond hair and pull him closer. For a moment, he's engulfed as well. His arm slides around my back, pulling me flush against him. His other arm steadies us so we don't topple into the fire, which seems to be growing hotter by the second. But before things can progress further, Peeta reluctantly pulls back, smiling apologetically. We still have to do the toasting.

Peeta struggles to get to his feet and walks to the kitchen table. He carefully slices the loaf of bread he'd made early that morning while I nervously turn the toasting fork in my hands. He carries the plate back to the fireplace and gives it to me to hold while he sits down.

I spear the pieces of bread on the prongs of the fork, and then Peeta guides the fork into the flames. The fire is so hot that he pulls it out after only a minute and puts it on the edge of the hearth to cool. Once the bread has cooled, he takes a piece and breaks it. His hand trembles slightly as he lifts a piece to my lips. I take a bite and chew carefully. I remove another piece from the fork and feed it to him.

Peeta and I have shared many meals in many different circumstances, but this time feels different. It's the opposite of the daylong picnic that we took before our second Hunger Games. Then, it felt like the end and, in all respects, it should have been. But this meal symbolizes the beginning .

The enormity of what has just occurred washes over me, and I feel a rush of pure joy. I reach for Peeta, and he gathers me into his arms. In the hearth, the fire burns until it's reduced to smoldering ash, but we barely notice because it rages on in us.


End file.
